Incognito
by elfgirl13
Summary: After the fall, Sherlock retreats to small-town New England for a chance to recover and begin his research on Moriarty's crime ring. But there's more to this small town than meets the eye, and soon Sherlock is caught up in a mystery that even he might not be able to solve.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was officially on the run.

With Mycroft's help, he had managed to secure a fake identity and passport. It wasn't enough to fool anyone that might be looking for him, such as a suspicious member of Moriarty's inner ring, but it was enough to get him on a plane out of the country. He landed in Boston, Massachusetts in the early hours of the morning. Then, with a very large to-go coffee in his hands, he rented a car with American money his brother had given him and drove west for two hours. He needed to get out of the city, and quickly. Once he found a decent place to stay, he could perfect his new identity and get on with his new life.

This was going to be harder than it looked.

"If only John could see me now," Sherlock muttered. "Alone again, running through a foreign country with a few dollars to my name. And it's not even my name. Not anymore. Not really."

He looked in the rearview mirror and examined his appearance. He would need a haircut at least. The curls and the cheekbones were too recognizable, even if he was in another country. As an internet sensation, he knew there was always a chance he would be recognized no matter where he went.

"Curse you, John," he said aloud, but couldn't help but smile sadly at the memory of his best friend. He knew he would be checking John's blog daily, looking for updates, keeping an eye on how the good doctor was doing.

Angrily, he wiped tears away from his eyes. He was Sherlock Holmes, the machine, as John had called him recently. He couldn't let his emotions cloud his thinking. He had work to do. Serious work. And he couldn't get that done if he was worried about John every minute of every day.

He remembered his last instructions to Molly before he had disappeared from Bart's disguised as a janitor with a limp. "Keep an eye on John for me, will you? This is going to be hard for him. If there's a problem, let Mycroft know. He'll know how to contact me." Molly had nodded solemnly, understanding how important it was to Sherlock that she do what he asked. With a firm handshake, Sherlock had turned to leave, only to turn right back around and say: "Oh, and maybe introduce him to a girl. I'm afraid I've ruined quite a few of his past relationships. He might have a decent shot now that I'm gone."

That had made Molly laugh. They both knew it was all too true. She promised to do everything he said, and he had felt a rush of relief sweep over him. John was in good, capable hands. Molly was clever, cleverer than anyone, including Moriarty, had realized. And to Sherlock, that was enough.

Mentally shaking himself to regain his focus, he glanced at the GPS resting on the car's dashboard. He was only forty-five minutes away from his destination. A small town of no consequence to anyone that he had found in a guide to rural New England.

Nothing ever happened there. No murders, no robberies. According to the guidebook, it had one of the lowest crime rates in the area. It sounded tedious and hateful, like the last place on earth the great Sherlock Holmes would ever want to settle.

Which is why he was going to do just that.


	2. Chapter 2

There was one hotel in the whole town. Actually, it wasn't much of a hotel and it wasn't really a town. The hotel itself was more like a bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere owned by a woman that reminded Sherlock painfully of his old landlady Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, hello dear," she said, the moment he walked in, giving him an enormous fake smile. Out of habit, Sherlock began to analyze everything about her, making deductions as he went.

Stop, he told himself after a particularly large amount of dog hair told him that she was the loving owner of four small, although rather fat and out of shape, dogs. Don't do that, Sherlock. Don't do anything to draw attention to yourself. You're laying low, remember? The world may think you're dead, but Moriarty was too clever to leave that to chance. He'd have made sure someone would check.

"I'd like a room please," he said to the woman. Her jaw went a bit slack at the sound of his voice.

"Are you British?" she asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "I'm only in town for a little while, a few weeks at most. Is it possible for me to get a room for that long?"

"O-of course," the woman said, obviously flustered. "I can set you up for as long as you need. But how in the world did you find this place?"

"A GPS."

The woman scratched her head. "A GPS," she said. "You wanted to come here. You got family here or something?"

"No."

"Then why would you want to come here?"

"It's quiet and out of the way and I was told people didn't ask questions."

The woman bit her lip, obviously taking his point and resisting the urge to press the matter. "Alrighty, then," she said, pulling an old-fashioned key from the hook on the wall and putting it on the counter along with the paperwork. "Just sign this and you'll be good to go."

Sherlock signed without hesitation, putting the room on the credit card Mycroft had given him, registered under a fake name. The woman checked to make sure everything was in order, then placed the key in his hand with a smile.

"Very good, Mr. Hudson," she said. "I'll show you to your room."

It was a decent room, rather small but open with a view. The bed covered in a simple blue bedspread and the bureau was sturdy enough. There was no television but he hadn't expected one since there was such a large one downstairs. Television was far from necessary though. He only ever watched television for the news anyway and he could stream that on his laptop as long as there was WiFi, no socializing necessary.

"Is everything all right?" the owner asked him, smiling and adjusting her glasses.

Sherlock tried to return the smile. "Everything's fine," he said, nodding slowly. Or it will be once I clear my name.

"Good," said the woman. "Call the desk if you need anything, and my name is Kris if you need me specifically."

I doubt it, he thought, but kept it to himself, probably for the first time in his life. The last thing he needed was to be evicted on his first day of going incognito. Not to mention he was exhausted and just wanted to sleep.

Thankfully, after a few unsuccessful conversation starters, Kris gave up and left, practically slamming the door behind her.

Americans.

Sherlock immediately tossed his luggage into a corner and collapsed onto the bed. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get to sleep. He couldn't even doze. In spite of his best efforts, the quiet and emptiness of the room gave him too much time to think. And when he had time to think, he could only think about one thing: How was John coping?

He hadn't heard a word about his best friend in two days, not since John had run out of Bart's in a panic after getting the (obviously fake) call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. Mycroft hadn't called to tell him anything, so he knew John was hanging in there, but still, Sherlock was desperate for news.

After five minutes of trying to push it out of his mind, Sherlock gave in and pulled out his laptop (well, legally, it was Gregory John Hudson's laptop) and opened up the browser. A few clicks later he found himself on a familiar page. What he saw practically made his heart stop.

John Watson was as predictable as rain in London. Whenever something significant happened, it almost immediately went into his blog. Knowing this, it scared Sherlock that, two days after his supposed suicide, John hadn't posted anything. There were no clues to give Sherlock an idea of his flat mate's mental state. And that scared Sherlock more than anything else.

Desperately he checked all the London news websites. His own face covered the home page of every site he visited, usually accompanied by the words "fake genius," "blogger detective," and "suicide". Part of him couldn't help but be amused at how easily the world had bought into his little magic trick. The other part of him - the small but ever present emotional part - was panicking. Not one article he read quoted John at all, which meant that Sherlock was completely in the dark.

He picked up his phone (again registered to Gregory Hudson) and started to call Mycroft. Check on John, he planned to say. Make sure he doesn't do anything rash or stupid. Detain him if you have to. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't want to have to make himself so vulnerable to his brother. Maybe it was his newfound inexplicable trust in Molly Hooper. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, he ended the call and tossed the phone onto his bed. Maybe John was just grieving. People did that; sentiment and all. He would post something when he was ready. After all, Sherlock was such a major part of his life and was featured in so many of the posts that it would be impossible for him not to post something. All Sherlock had to do was be patient.

The idea sickened him. I need air, he thought, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get any sleep any time soon.

Five minutes later, he found himself exploring the main street of Hillsbury, Massachusetts. There wasn't much there: one supermarket, a library, a few small shops, one apartment building, and a park whose lawn looked like it had seen better days.

It was hateful.

But still, Sherlock kept walking because the alternative was thinking. And he just couldn't think anymore. Every time he stopped walking, all he saw was John's heartbroken face leaning over the body that wasn't Sherlock. The pain in his eyes had been undeniable, as had the obvious tremor in his voice. John Watson, expert marksman, army doctor, the man who had seen many violent deaths, had been brought to his knees by the suicide of his best friend. It was painful to watch and playing in Sherlock's head in a loop whenever he stopped long enough to let his mind wander.

Sentiment, he thought. You don't have time. Quick, there's a man over there. What's his story?

He examined the tall, weedy, bespectacled man intently.

He's a shop owner, age 43, wife and two kids at home: one boy, one girl. He has a cat but he's allergic. Dark circles under the eyes indicate he's not sleeping at night. Maybe the shop's in trouble. Probably not a lot of business in a town like this. And thing's aren't improving any time soon. He hasn't told his wife yet.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself as the man passed by. Yes, he could control his emotions. He could detach himself just like he always could. It was just going to be harder now that there were people he cared about that he couldn't see.

With a slight spring in his step, he began making his way towards the park, hoping to be able to observe the people there.

He almost made it. If it hadn't been for a few years spent in the company of John Watson, he would have.


End file.
